


Death Doth Find Us All

by LaurenCrabtree



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Dream Cycle - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Blood, Darkness, Gen, Hand Gagging, Human Sacrifice, Kidnapping, Mentions of Randolph Carter, Mentions of Tooth Extraction, Pessimistic Pickman, Pocket Dimensions - Freeform, mentions of interrogation, mentions of psychological torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 11:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17364719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurenCrabtree/pseuds/LaurenCrabtree
Summary: Richard Pickman has been a thorn in Nyarlathotep’s side for far too long. Now, as the Outer God finally decides to get rid of him once and for all, Pickman ruminates on what he has done, fears what might happen to him, and encounters an old friend.





	Death Doth Find Us All

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo; an anon requested Nyarlathotep/Pickman + Hand Gagging. If you want to request a fic or just chat, you can find me on Tumblr at @laurencrabtree.

He hadn’t expected to end up in this position.

 

But the moment he felt the unearthly hand clamp down over his mouth, Richard Pickman knew that Nyarlathotep was after him this time. Almost immediately, he tried to snap at the extremity, but his jaws met thin air and were immediately held shut again when they closed, this time with a far stronger grip.

 

“No need to use those teeth of yours, Richard,” Nyarlathotep’s all-too-familiar voice echoed through the cavernous tunnel. “I just might yank them out if you do.” Pickman kept his mouth shut after that; he knew that Nyarlathotep wasn’t kidding around. He soon felt more hands grasp his arms and legs, and much to his surprise, these ones didn’t feel quite so unnatural. Whether they belonged to humans or moon-beasts or something else entirely, he didn’t know, but he at least knew that Nyarlathotep had not come here alone. 

 

Soon after, something was pulled down over his head, enveloping him in total darkness. It wasn’t a bag or anything that would normally be used in a kidnapping—it felt almost like some kind of pocket dimension. He could still feel himself being moved, but he felt no friction at all; it was as if he was floating. He tried feeling around, but felt nothing. He tried listening for any sounds, but everything he heard was muffled. He tried to stand up, but his feet were met with nothingness. With nothing else to do, he screamed for help.

 

It was the first time in a long while that Pickman had screamed; he had always been used to lurking in the shadows and guiding Carter. In truth, Carter was typically the one doing most of the screaming; whatever Nyarlathotep saw in the human, the god kept coming back for him time and time again. It was selfish, but Pickman hoped that he hadn’t finally given up and switched targets. He thought of all of the things that Carter had been put through, and while not all of them frightened him, some did.

 

As he was carried through the darkness, Pickman recalled when the moon-beasts had tortured his cohorts; he hoped that that would be the extent of his fate. He could dish out false information like nobody’s business; that wouldn’t be a problem. What he couldn’t take was the idea that he could be killed.

 

He wouldn’t truly die, really; not as long as he was in the Dreamlands. But he had seen what happened to the people who died in their sleep and were trapped there: time and time again, they would be left pining for the Waking World, never able to tie up all of the loose ends that they had left behind. Yes, he had written his will, but he had family in the Waking World, and the thought of how close he could get to them without actually being able to communicate made his heart sink. 

 

While he hated to admit it, it was a tactic he had used himself: threaten to show a trapped Dreamer how the world is reacting to their death, and they would give him any information they had. Nyarlathotep’s cultists feared it just as much as he did, and for the first time, Pickman began to sympathize with them. He felt tears beginning to sting at his eyes, and while he knew that he was imagining the worst-case scenario, Pickman couldn’t get the thought out of his head.

 

Before he could dwell on it any further, though, a wound ripped through the inky space ahead of him and he found himself unceremoniously dumped onto a cold stone floor. Rubbing his head in pain, he slowly looked up and saw above him someone he had never expected to see again. About thirty yards away, tied to an altar with Nyarlathotep hovering above him, was Thurber. To be more precise, it was Thurber, his chest barely rising with each breath, blood dripping down his chest and arms from a wound that Pickman couldn’t quite make out. He tried to run toward his friend, but he was held fast by the same hands that had shoved him into the pocket dimension. As he strained against their grip, Nyarlathotep’s voice rang in his ears.

 

“You’re next.”


End file.
